


Pages

by An_idiot_sandwich



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Holding Hands, Hospitals, If you are twoset, M/M, hearing loss, little details, sad eddy, you can review/roast it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24625846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_idiot_sandwich/pseuds/An_idiot_sandwich
Summary: If I tap your collarbone with my finger, you will hear it.
Relationships: Eddy Chen & Brett Yang, Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Pages

Eddy never hated the rain. Even the saddest movie scenes, even the most dramatic funerals couldn't stop him from smiling when raindrops fall. It was a reflex. When it rained in November it would feel like bullets for many people. But he -blame his romanticism- would try to raise his head and kiss the rain. Every drop would change the colour of his coat to a ton darker and he would try to see it as a cute dot. He would imagine a red mushroom with white spots or a ladybug.  
The rain was strong enough to close the windows, but never the curtains. Violin practises, movies, anime, games... Sometimes he would take a book and turn the pages until letters lost their shape. His favourite genre was "hope".Brett claimed it wasn't a real genre, but Eddy was sure he was just jealous. He went as far as finding Brett's genre to stop his jealousy and prove that it existed.  
When he finished scanning Brett's books, Brett was still mocking him.  
***  
He had a different smile that day. His dimples were pushing his cheeks, he could smile for miles. Brett was watching them from the corner. Eddy was comforting his neighbour's little girl with a violin in his hands.  
It took only five minutes to calm her down. Her mother sometimes forced her, and Eddy (being Eddy) agreed to help her with his free masterclass, with the permission of her mother of course. The little girl was maybe 6 or maybe 7 years old, they were definitely raising a little prodigy with their own hands! Brett thought about making this a video topic one day. But for now, he wanted to absorb those sweet moments.  
The little girl could easily do what he wanted, such a dream student indeed. She panicked when they started to play the piece. Eddy said this problem was going to be solved by practice.  
After about an hour of work, her mother called and asked her to come home. As a parting gift, Eddy and Brett played a piece together for her: Pas de deux. How could they know that she would be playing this piece to her lover years later?  
***  
The scene that Brett saw when he came home that evening was more terrifying than Guernica. Eddy was lying on the floor.  
The panic reached his hands and feet, and after that everything seemed like an autopilot. When he called the ambulance, how long was in this bloody shirt and how long he had been in the hospital, he did not remember any of them. Doctors came with pages in their hands  
When they spoke, words did not reach his ears. Eddy was lying in bed, tired. He remained silent when he sat next to him. Brett watched Eddy's hand while watching the city lights outside.  
Brett squeezed it lightly. "Stress", they said.  
***  
When Eddy came up with a new interpretation of rain and sidewalks a few days later, Brett had just finished his violin work.  
"God," said Eddy. "God plays the piano on the sidewalks." When Brett asked him where he got this idea, Eddy shrugged and went to grab a book. He was turning the pages. And Eddy noticed something right on the 27th page. He could not hear the pages turning over. Pages never make a serious sound, but still their voices must be heard. And he did not hear. Eddy started to turn the pages quickly. He was panicking. 13-19-93. No, no. No sound. When he finished the book and threw it on the ground, he heard. He didn't even feel relieved when he heard. He was thinking what he couldn’t.  
They were in the hospital again. "Hearing loss". It was the only word Eddy heard about - or chose to hear. He wasn't wondering. To be able to hear again, why did this happen, will it worsen, or the violin, when, how and why ... None. He was not curious about any of them. When they returned home that day, Brett was carrying tons of paper and files. Though Brett was carrying them, they were growing in Eddy's eyes, turning into a net and crushing him under their weight. "Hearing loss". When he sat in the couch he was still being crushed. He lied on Brett's knees. When Eddy woke up in the morning, he was wrapped in a blanket. Brett was preparing dinner. Thousands of ideas’ steps echoed in his mind. Every word left a muddy footprint in ceramic floor. He started to turn the pages again. He could feel the wind that pages made when turning , even though he couldn't hear their voice. When he held the book by the edge of the cover and shake it he remembered the church bells. Quesmodo Quesmodo. But after this fire, which church was left for him to be the guardian of?  
***  
One day Ray taught him to count up to 20 with his hands, Chinese style. He was sure it would never be necessary. But he never had the courage to open the sign language book at home. He just couldn't find the courage. He was afraid, too. Numbers were increasing with every visit to hospital. “Deafness” they said, they said “not to hear”, they said “sorry”. And the sound of the pages was already forgotten.  
***  
That day was a different kind of evil. There were times that he's just stuck in a sentence desperately. Have you ever tasted it? Sometimes that sentence is not even his own sentence. Sometimes it consists of only one word, but it feels like banging your head against the wall many times. There was no end to numbers. Words had no end. And so many pages were turned - from left to right and again and now, those pages had no end anymore. People raised their voices in front of him. But no matter how loud the sounds of his friends rise, as he passed down the street, the decibels of the whispers from his back remained the same.  
***  
After a while, not only others’ voice, but also his voice was muted. Mouth gestures, hand signs. Sometimes a quick writing to a notebook. It was pathetic. There were unspoken sentences. When he had nightmares he was sure he loved more. In reality, this torture would take hours but dreams summarized them for a few minutes and left the most painful drops in his mind. Nightmares treated him better than the truth.  
***  
There were things that died in him, he wished he had kept a diary from the beginning. Beggars always have seen it, but only after that he could understand them.  
Withered flowers. There were thousands of reasons why it was bad for him to stay in his room. When flowers dried up he threw them to the trash. Because the place of the dead is none other than the grave. Pity alone wouldn’t keep them in that vase.

**Author's Note:**

> That's my first fanfiction ever, please be gentle.


End file.
